Finding Tipperary Mary

by Phyllis Whitsell

  A stern-looking receptionist sat at her desk, but I was surprised and relieved to find there was no queue. ‘Can I help you?’ she said, before I had time to compose myself.

  The waiting area was overflowing with people, and I needed to speak in confidence to someone, away from prying eyes and wagging ears. I started to explain in a low, soft, hushed voice.

  ‘You will need to speak up, I can’t hear you.’ I had to be on the ball here so I used the same sharp tone to shout back.

  ‘I’ve come to see Bridget Ryan’s social worker.’

  Raising her shoulders and eyebrows a few inches, she said, ‘In connection with …?’

  ‘It’s a sensitive matter, and I need to speak to her in private,’ I replied.

  At that point, I wasn’t even sure if Bridget had a social worker or, if so, which gender they were. Fortunately she did have an allocated social worker, who was female, so at least it appeared that I was familiar with Bridget’s case.

  Suddenly I felt more confident. I reminded myself that I’d cared for my mother for eight years after deciding to go it alone, without any help from other professional bodies. I now needed to be confident within my role as Bridget’s daughter, but I could draw on my strength as a nurse.

  The receptionist seemed to change her attitude and was less intimidating. ‘What’s your name? Are you a relative of Bridget Ryan?’ Without any hesitation I replied, ‘Yes, I’m her daughter.’

  It just seemed so natural to say and if I’m honest it was almost a relief to be able to tell someone who I really was, albeit not the most sympathetic person. She immediately started to write down my name, then hurried into the back office. I waited for whoever she had to consult to make a decision.

  I heard whispering and was conscious that I was being scrutinised. Eventually she returned and asked me to take a seat in the waiting room. ‘The social worker will see you shortly,’ I was informed.

  Making every effort not to trip over feet, mine or other people’s, I found one vacant chair in the far corner. After an anxious wait my name was eventually called and I was taken by a tall, slim woman through to a small office at the back of the building. She smiled and introduced herself.

  ‘I’m Frances, Bridget’s social worker,’ she said, giving me a firm handshake. I thanked her for seeing me at such short notice.

  She explained that one of her clients had cancelled their appointment at the last minute, so she had an hour to spare. It was a deprived area of Birmingham, with a lot of social problems, so I’m sure she had a busy caseload. It was as if I was destined to meet her.

  ‘I didn’t realise Bridget was in contact with her daughter,’ she said, looking bewildered. After offering me a seat she studied me in the same way that the probation officer had done years ago, when I’d first gone in search of my mother.

  First I gave her Bridget’s date of birth, which confirmed that I was in fact her daughter. Then I enquired about Timmy. She began leafing through Bridget’s file, which was on her desk. Looking rather puzzled, she eventually asked, ‘Was that the man she lodged with? Ah, he passed away, over two years ago now.’ She was not prepared to give me any more details about the circumstances that led to his death, which I realised was due to confidentiality. Although he was a grumpy old man, I was saddened to hear that he’d died.

  Although Frances was aware that Bridget had children, she believed they’d all been taken into care years ago, and that she’d never had any contact with any of them. She listened with great interest as I told my story, and assured me that I’d definitely done the right thing by not revealing my true identity.

  She was astonished that I’d had the courage to care for my mother, and said that I’d prevented her from going into a home much sooner. I explained how I had become worried, in case I got into trouble for pretending to be Bridget’s nurse when in fact I was her natural daughter. She soon put my mind at rest, as she leant over and pressed my shoulder. ‘You should be proud of what you did. It’s just sad that Bridget suffers from dementia, and will never know.’

  Frances explained the circumstances that caused my mother to be taken into a care home. With a big sigh and a sympathetic smile, she clasped her hands together, while resting them on the desk, and looked me straight in the eye. I waited to hear the latest chapter in Bridget’s life.

  ‘Your mother was found collapsed and unconscious in an alleyway. It was in the middle of the night and freezing cold, but luckily she was spotted by the police. She was fortunate to have been found, as it was certain that she wouldn’t have survived the night.’

  She paused. I didn’t want to dwell on the fact that my mother would probably have died if she hadn’t been found. I think Frances read my mind as she briskly changed her tone.

  ‘Well, that was just over two years ago now. She was rushed into hospital as an emergency, and after some tests she was diagnosed with epilepsy, caused by her alcoholism. She had several seizures while she was in hospital, but eventually, with the right medication, her condition stabilised.’

  She stopped briefly, again allowing me time to collect my thoughts. I nodded to acknowledge that she should continue.

  ‘As you are aware, there was a noticeable deterioration in your mother’s mental health. She was referred to a psychiatrist, who confirmed that she was suffering from dementia, which I’m sorry to have to say was also associated with alcoholism.’

  She wrote down the address and telephone number of the home where my mother was resident, and offered to phone the manager to explain the situation. I appreciated her offer, as it would save me from having to tell the whole story again. She’d been so obliging and I thanked her for all her help. As I left the office she squeezed my hand.

  Although I was sad that it had been confirmed that my mother was now suffering from epilepsy — as well as dementia, part of me also felt relieved. At last she was in a safe environment and being looked after by healthcare professionals.

  I telephoned the care home manager just after 9 a.m. the next day and, as promised, Frances had already given her all the details. Although professional, she was very friendly, and seemed intrigued to meet me.

  She said, ‘Even though your mother has dementia, she often talks about her children, but doesn’t seem to remember their names. Your mother’s a real character, although sometimes she can be quite aggressive. It really depends on what type of mood she’s in.’

  That sounded just like Bridget, I thought! Rather apprehensively, I asked if I could visit my mother later that day. She said I was welcome to visit at any time, and that this was now my mother’s home. I thanked her and she said, ‘I’m really looking forward to meeting you.’ We simultaneously said goodbye, and put down the receiver.

  After leaving Tom with his child-minder, I arrived at the home around 11 a.m. It was only a short distance from where she’d previously lived, so at least I was familiar with the area. It was a fairly new, purpose-built care home. I felt extremely anxious at the prospect of seeing my mother after such a long time, and I suppose I was also worried about meeting the staff who were looking after her, as it certainly was an unusual case.

  There were plenty of spaces in the large car park in front of the home, and I sat there for some time gathering my thoughts before entering the building.

  This was going to be the first time I’d visited my mother as her daughter, and in such a public place. I quickly reminded myself of how I’d dealt with bathing my mother in her drunken stupor; how I’d coped with Timmy’s hostile, often threatening, behaviour. But that was now all in the past.

  I rang the doorbell and a woman in a light green uniform opened the door. As I stepped inside, I was greeted with a welcoming smile. However, she appeared confused when I told her, ‘I’ve come to see Bridget Ryan.’ Looking extremely puzzled, she said, ‘But Bridget never has any visitors.’

  I squeezed past her, my heart thumping as I said, ‘Um, um, I’ve got an appointment with the manager.’ Thankfully I was soon rescued, as the
manager walked towards me, with her arms open, enfolding me in a warm embrace.

  ‘Hello, you must be Phyllis?’ she said, telling me her name was Lisa.

  Realising how nervous I was, she asked, ‘Would you like a nice cup of tea?’ and led me into her office, which helped me feel less conspicuous. Lisa then asked a member of staff for a pot of tea for two, adding, ‘I don’t want any interruptions, so if anybody phones, just ask them to ring back later.’

  I started to relax, and leant back in one of the comfortable chairs in her office. She had Bridget’s care plan on her lap. It was like she was hugging it. I couldn’t help but speculate what an interesting read it would be, as Bridget was certainly a unique person. After a few minutes there was a knock on the door. This time it was a much younger woman who brought in the tea and biscuits. I suspected that she was also curious to see what Bridget’s daughter actually looked like.

  There was an uncomfortable moment of silence as Lisa glanced at me. I imagine she was looking for any similarity between me and Bridget. She quickly turned her head and apologised, while offering me a biscuit, almost as a distraction. Then she set about explaining some points about my mother’s condition.

  ‘I realise that Frances has already given you the background information about the circumstances that led to your mother requiring full-time care. However, I’ll explain a few more details, if that’s OK?’ As she opened the care plan, which was still balanced on her lap, I listened attentively to the latest instalment of my mother’s life.

  ‘Your mother has been a resident here for almost two years now. She was admitted on 20 June 1990. She had been in hospital for a long time. When the man she lodged with died, she needed to go into a home, as she could never have coped by herself. At that time she had no known relatives.’

  Conscious that her remark may have caused me some distress, she quickly added, ‘Frances told me how you’d nursed your mother at home for eight years, without her even realising who you were. That must have been so hard for you.’ Not really knowing how to reply to her question, I just smiled.

  Lisa continued to tell me about my mother’s behaviour. It certainly appeared that she was quite challenging at times. She then showed me a photograph of Bridget when she’d been taken out for the day. It made me feel very emotional. Although she looked older, her face was much fatter, she looked well groomed, and she’d even had her hair brushed for the occasion. The sad thing was, although she was now living with dementia, she looked more normal in that photograph than I’d ever seen her look before.

  Lisa left the office for a few minutes while she arranged for Bridget to be taken into a small lounge further along the corridor. When she came back she explained, ‘Bridget has her own bedroom, at the back of the building.’ I thought to myself, at least she’s got some privacy, as some of the residents did have shared rooms, but it was soon made clear to me that the main reason Bridget needed a single room was because she had become so disruptive, especially during the night.

  Apparently she often screamed, and could sometimes be aggressive towards the other residents for no particular reason. She sometimes lashed out at the staff, was unpredictable, and couldn’t be trusted.

  Well, that was Lisa’s summary of Bridget’s behaviour. I realised that she needed to tell me the problems they’d been faced with. It just made me feel sad, as during our conversation she’d informed me that Bridget no longer drank alcohol. In fact, she’d forgotten that she was ever dependent on it. This was very poignant. The thing that had damaged my mother’s brain, and contributed to her living the life that she had, she didn’t crave anymore. But because of it, I’d lost the mother I had finally found.

  ‘Well, Phyllis, are you ready to see your mother?’

  I nodded.

  Lisa clarified the arrangements. ‘It will be better if we use the small lounge. It’s quieter in there. Most of the relatives like to use this lounge, especially if they want to have a natter with their loved ones without being disturbed. It’s so much better than the communal lounge – it’s not very private there, as there are usually lots of different conversations going on at the same time.’

  She continued in a matter-of-fact way, as if I was just an ordinary relative. ‘When you’ve had a chat with your mum, I’ll show you her bedroom and then I can give you a tour of the home.’ But how else did I expect her to act?

  I felt confused and very anxious. It was like meeting my mother for the first time all over again. The only difference was that I could now call her Mum but, regrettably, she wouldn’t know. Lisa gave me a friendly wink, and said she would now let me have some time alone with my mother.

  I made my way towards the small lounge, gingerly opening the door, and feeling scared of what was behind it. There was my mother, sitting on the sofa, just staring out of the window. She turned, but there was no recognition, no facial expression, only her wide, gaping eyes. It was as if a complete stranger had just entered the room.

  I was aching to say, Hello, Mum, it’s Phyllis, your long-lost daughter, but my mouth was dry, I just couldn’t say a word. As I sat beside her on the sofa, clutching her hand, I noticed that she now had clean, manicured fingernails. Tears started rolling down my face.

  I managed to retrieve a tissue from my bag, trying desperately to hide the fact that I was crying. Suddenly there was a tap on the door. It was a relief to see Lisa’s friendly face peeping around the door, and she immediately saw that I was upset. She said, ‘Bridget’s just had her medication, so I’m sure that’s why she’s not responding to you.’ It just looked as if she was in a world of her own, and totally unaware of her surroundings.

  After a while, Lisa gave me the promised tour of the home. It was obvious that there were other residents with dementia. Some chatted to me as if I were their long lost friend, yet my own mother hadn’t spoken a word to me. As we walked into the bedroom it was sparsely furnished; no ornaments or pictures of any description.

  Lisa must have read my mind, and told me why the bedroom was so spartan. ‘As I pointed out earlier, your mother can often be aggressive, and she’s been known to throw things. She broke the mirror on her dressing table the other day, so it had to be removed. She really can’t be trusted.’

  I sneaked a look in her wardrobe, and it was almost empty with only a few items of clothing. Lisa said, ‘You’re welcome to bring in any photographs, perhaps one of yourself? If it’s framed, we can get the handyman to put it on the wall.’

  I decided this was not a good idea. First, she was likely to have thrown something at it, but second, and more importantly, she wouldn’t have any recollection of me as her daughter, so it would be meaningless.

  We went back into Lisa’s office for a chat before I left. I’d already made my mind up that it was best if I didn’t go back to see Bridget that day. I just didn’t want to make a scene; I already felt self-conscious and had the impression that I was the talk of the home. It seemed that most of the staff were curious to see what Bridget’s long-lost daughter really looked like.

  Lisa asked, ‘Would you like to meet your mother’s GP? She will be able to give you more details of her medical condition. After all, you are her next of kin, and you have a right to know.’ It was the first time I’d ever thought about it, and it did feel a bit weird. I said I would be pleased to meet her, so Lisa telephoned and made an appointment for the following Saturday at midday.

  Dr Watkins apparently told Lisa that she would have finished surgery by then, so we would have more time to talk. I was grateful that she was prepared to see me, and I thanked Lisa for all her help.

  She gave me Dr Watkins’ phone number and the surgery’s address, and advised me to give her a call before I went, just to make sure she hadn’t been called out on an emergency. Lisa suddenly remembered that she hadn’t got my address or telephone number. As she started to write it in Bridget’s care plan she hesitated and said, ‘Ah, it will be nice to fill in the blank space by “next of kin”.’ Her pen hovered as she asked, �
�Will it be all right to put you down as Bridget’s daughter?’

  I thought about it for a few moments and then replied, ‘Well I suppose I am, so why not? Just don’t put all the details about me being adopted as it will just complicate things.’ I had spent my life keeping my adoption a secret, so I thought it was simpler not to put it in writing now. However, it did cause complications later, as some of the staff didn’t realise how unusual our relationship was. But more of that later.

  I left the home feeling emotionally exhausted. I collected Tom from the child minder, giving him the biggest cuddle ever, and went home for a cup of tea, realising how important being part of a family really is.

  The following Saturday morning I telephoned the surgery and asked if I could speak to Dr Watkins. To my surprise she answered the phone.

  I quickly blurted out, ‘I’m Bridget Ryan’s daughter. The manager of her care home made an appointment for me to see you this morning.’

  She said, ‘Yes, that will be fine. Just come along at midday as arranged,’ and the line went dead. I’d been feeling relatively calm, but I was now apprehensive as she almost seemed dismissive of me, as if I were being a nuisance. I only hoped she’d be more welcoming when I met her.

  Dr Watkins was the designated GP for the home, and visited most Thursday mornings. Bridget had only been her patient from when she was admitted into the home. As I walked towards the reception area, a more approachable receptionist, a little flustered, greeted me with a warm smile.

  ‘Hello, have you come to see Dr Watkins?’ she asked. Before I had time to answer her she said, ‘If you’d like to go through to consulting room 4, Dr Watkins is waiting to see you.’ She gave me the impression that she’d been well informed about my visit.

  There was no time to gather my thoughts which, in hindsight, was probably for the best. I thanked her and headed towards room 4. On entering I coughed nervously and Dr Watkins joked, ‘You should see a doctor about that cough,’ which helped break the ice. She seemed totally different now in person.